Portent of Exile
by Lizzie Oakenshield
Summary: Thorin Oakenshield, exiled king of Erebor, is a wandering blacksmith who endures proudly the cruelty and abasement of his condition. When a prophecy announces the end of Smaug's reign over his kingdom, a mysterious woman appears and exhorts him to fulfil his fate. She swears to protect him from the perils of his quest and from herself, for she holds terrible secrets. Thorin/OC.
1. The Dwarven Blacksmith

The vast city was oppressed by the cruelty of the afternoon sun, which rays refused to dispense the least respite. The great walls were of a blinding white under the bright light, and the once proud flags, facing the winds with an arrogant defiance, were of an indolent immobility. The heath was stultifying and men attended to their daily tasks with a drawling gait, desperately trying to reach the salutary shadow of the narrow lanes, where merchants, peddlers and pedestrians wandered, forming a colourful and noisy community.

Carefully arranged and placed across the many lanes of the imposing city, the stalls inspired a feeling of opulence and profusion, with their rich tapestries, generous fruits and fragrant spices. Merchants praised with a strong voice the quality of their fabrics, the dexterity of their crafts and the beauty of their animals, which constant neighs and cries increased the heavy murmur of this agitated crowd. Children were playing amongst the buyers, constantly running and laughing, dancing salamanders under the ardent sun. This picturesque scene would intrigue the beholder, if he accepted to admire for an instant the variety of colours and smells, to witness the different attitudes of men and women accepting their part in this vivid theatre.

Apart from this oblivious crowd, the blacksmiths barely noticed the enthusiasm of commerce; their feverish eyes stared at the heated metal they were attempting to bend and shape in an endless furnace of ashes and sparks. The repetitive sound of the hammer, hitting the anvil with an urging rage, formed a deafening litany and the smiths, stiffening their tensed muscles, seemed hypnotised by this hellish song of fire and steel. Their bare chest, sullied by dirt and sweat, tautened with fury when the hammer was raised, prepared to collide with the glowing metal.

Amongst the blacksmiths, in the heat of the forge, was a dwarf; his hand was firm, skilled and his work, though perfectly crafted, was realised with a violent dedication. His black tunic, widely opened, stuck to his skin from the sweat, revealing a sturdy chest, large shoulders, muscled arms and massive hands. His strong face was of a wild and male beauty. His long black hair, ornamented with dwarven braids, was strewed with silver strands. His light blue eyes expressed resentment, wrath and fixedly stared at the malleable metal. He had a black beard and a vigorous nose; powerful and massive was his stature, though he was smaller than the other blacksmiths, who admired the dexterity and precision of his skills, but feared and disdained him because of his race. Foolish rumours about a dwarven king, tragically dismissed from his kingdom by a great dragon, were whispered as an ironic tale; the greed of a reptile infringed upon the avarice of the sons of Aulë.

In the large city, mostly inhabited by men, dwarves were few and their race often was perceived as greedy and coarse. This particular dwarf, scornful and acrimonious, confirmed men in their hasty judgement. He barely spoke to the other smiths and refused to join them in their noisy chatter; with disdaining grunts, he stared at the metal, as if his heinous eyes were capable of subduing and bowing it.

When the night approached, the workers put away their tools and left the furnace to find comfort in the freshness of the evening. The empty forge echoed their cheerful laughs whilst the dwarf, alone, continued to tirelessly shape the steel, just as he would shape his own destiny if fate didn't decide differently. When his powerful arm, defeated by exhaustion, refused to raise the hammer, he returned to his kin with a weary heart, slowly wandering through the deserted alleys.

A few of his relatives dwelled in the same city and endured the existence of perpetual strangers. Exile saddened their kind eyes and, though their joyful nature proscribed grief, their features reflected the sorrow of their faithful heart.

When Thorin Oakenshield, king without a kingdom, returned from his labour, with sore body and aching soul, they welcomed him respectfully, leaning their bearded faces towards the dwarven blacksmith, still covered with sweat and ashes. Their resolute deference pierced the torn clothes and the dirty skin, revealing his royal and noble ancestry. The loyal healer Óin often proposed him medicinal herbs to ease his aching muscles. Though the king usually refused the care of his kin, tonight he accepted his help with gratitude; the day was particularly tiresome and sadness clinched his mind.

Illuminated by dim candles, the grey bearded healer prepared his various healing balms and potions, while the company sat silently, waiting for their king to finish his frugal meal. Fragrant smell of medicinal herbs perfumed the fresh night air. Crucial matters were to be discussed: earlier, the dwarves had heard rumours about the once glorious kingdom of Erebor. Fíli and Kíli, nephews of the king, could not restrain the agitation of youth; they impatiently strode along the dining room, eager to reveal what they formerly had learned from the elders...

A brief smile enlightened Thorin's severe face as he perceived their alacrity. He soon raised an interrogative eyebrow and his deep voice resonated in the silent place:

- Will you cease your constant bustle and tell me what you've been burning to tell me since my return tonight?

His grim appearance was reinforced by the dim light and his abundant hair seemed dark as a raven's wing.

- Uncle, exclaimed Kíli, Óin has deciphered a portent about the Lonely Mountain!

- He has read the omen and said it was time, added Fíli. Ravens have been seen flying back to the Mountain!

- As it was foretold, when the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end, recalled Óin.

The dwarves suddenly jumped to their feet, quarrelling about the prophecy, arguing upon various details and sharing contradictory statements till their joined voices formed a deafening clamour. Irritation and impatience grew in Thorin while a dwarf initiated an endless dissertation concerning some ambiguous signs, which could cause a misinterpretation of the portent or, even worse, reverse its whole meaning. Another dwarf answered that the velocity of the ravens should be considered as one of those decisive details.

Thorin's strong voice silenced their discussion:

- _Atkât_! I will not listen to this foolish nonsense! I do not believe in portents; these despicable lies appear way too late! Why didn't the oracles foresee the coming of Smaug? Why didn't they predict the fall of Erebor? Did they presage no soul would come to our aid after we begged for assistance and we would be sentenced to a life of exile, expelled from our wealthy kingdom?

The dwarves remained silent, devastated by his savage stare. Their kind features expressed a growing concern for their king. They leaned respectfully their head when Thorin abruptly left, and Óin dared not give him the herbal balm.

- Is he truly serious? asked Kíli after Thorin had left.

Worry was perceptible on his juvenile face, but Fíli patted his shoulder in a reassuring gesture.

- We must convince him, added Fíli, the dragon may be dead and the wealth of our race may lie unprotected. If enemies read the signs, surely they will try to claim our vast richness while we remain in exile! We must persuade our king to take back his kingdom!

The dwarves nodded fervently and Óin raised a calming hand.

- Thorin will eventually change his mind, he said. This proud king will never let strangers seize his property. Besides, he will not abandon his kin for he has a loyal heart. Resentment has turned his faith into despair and disappointment, but deep in his veins runs the pride of his forefathers... Furthermore, I decided to conceal mysterious signs that involve our king directly.

- You didn't inform us about those signs! What are they? asked Kíli.

- The portent is still vague and contradictory for the signs refuse to reveal themselves fully. My reading must be refined to decipher it whole. However, a few signs are certain: a forthcoming event will change Thorin's fate. Besides, a mysterious being I still cannot identify is to be revealed, and will determine his future.

The curious dwarves spent their evening trying to figure out the hidden meaning of the omen and imagining their future quest to reclaim their homeland.

Thorin sat calmly at the window of his lonely bedroom and breathed the calm air. Quiet he appeared, but his heart burned proudly. His secret will to reclaim his abandoned kingdom and slay the cruel beast that brought misery upon his proud race tortured him. Yet he felt weak, king in exile, perpetually foreigner. He ardently desired to abandon his title for a gentle presence he could confess to. He survived deadly calamities and desperate battles; he faced battalions of foes with fierce stare and firm hand. He faced for decades the humiliations and sufferings of his condition with an impenetrable indifference. Yet he was suffocated with despair and solitude.

His massive head turned at the cloudless night sky and he observed silently the delicate crescent of the moon. His stature was stately and sombre, lightly illuminated by the pale gleam of the countless stars.

Suddenly, Thorin caught an almost imperceptible motion in the alley beneath his window; he could glimpse the furtive movement of a cloak, promptly disappearing in the shade nearby. Thorin rose and leant at the ledge of the window, staring at the dark with his piercing eyes, but the alley was again deserted and the silhouette was gone.

Bystanders were not particularly common in this remote area of the city, but they were not rare either. Sometimes, mendicants and wanderers frequented the area, silently passing or begging at the door of the residents. Nonetheless, this shadow was most unusual, for it was incredibly swift and silent. Thorin fought a sudden irrational feeling of being watched and, though this brief event aroused his interest, he gave in to exhaustion and headed towards his bed. Influenced by fatigue and despair, he assumed his impressionable mind invented this brief event.


	2. An Unexpected Encounter

The inexorable sun was yet not raised when Thorin awoke from his nightmarish rest. Agitated and oppressed he appeared, since his sleep was frequently subjugated with grief. The ungrateful night didn't offer him the peace he longed for. His short but powerful body was entangled with the crumpled sheets, strands of his hair were stuck to his face by sweat and his heart was furiously beating, trying to escape his oppressed chest, as if it wanted to reach an inaccessible haven.

He laboriously got out of his bed and sat, his muscles still vehemently aching and his soul irrevocably discouraged. He abandoned himself to despair for an instant, resting his heavy head against his palms, living allegory of despondency and symbol of the dismissed and fallen kings. Admonishing himself for his shameful weakness, he heavily arose and begun his daily preparations. Austere they were and promptly he was disposed to endure his eternal routine, his perpetual abasement, his endless mortification. The king's stately appearance contrasted with the indigence of his clothing, sullied and tattered by years of toil in the forges of Middle-Earth. The devastated sovereign was metamorphosed into a broad-shouldered and obscure blacksmith, a proscribed and forbidding dwarf. Painfully resigned, he left his solitude and went down the stairs to the main room. Traversing the place, he stepped over the lying bodies of the dwarves, who slept on the very ground, snoring loudly with a wide opened mouth. Fíli and Kíli were resting at the table, affectionately cuddling their empty stein. Thorin assumed the dwarves probably discussed about the omen till the beer ran dry and the food lacked. Briefly, he envied their merry insouciance. His nephews not yet knew the dreadful responsibilities of royalty.

It was daybreak when he walked to the forge, surrounded with the indifferent men, who sometimes shoved him in their haste, without a word of excuse or contrition, without even acknowledging his existence. The dwarf grumbled and cursed them for their distraction, but his complaints were haughtily ignored. He let a brief sigh of relief escape his lips when he eventually reached the forge and, without delay, he silently began his usual task. It was still early morning and a sole smith was yet present, consciously sharpening a blade with an apparent dedication. Thorin grabbed a piece of metal and heated it into the scorching embers. Then, he sat at his anvil and begun to repeatedly pound the glowing end. He was attempting to give the workpiece a satisfactory shape when he was distracted by a vehement argument behind his back. A customer had a vivid dispute with his escort and Thorin could surmise he was apparently involved; "repugnant dwarf" was, indeed, unequivocal.

Thorin recognised this client, a vain and conceited lord who ordered him, not long ago, a small sword, gift for his capricious eldest child. The transaction was handled then by the lord's servants, while he observed the dwarf in retreat, with a despising stare. Thorin was accustomed to this contemptuous attitude and, though he silently cursed the lord and his lineage, he accepted to forge a sword in exchange for a derisory sum of money.

The nobleman was adorned in all his finery. His refined garment was embroidered with delicate golden strands and, though the heath in the forge was stifling, he was arrayed with a velvet mantle, inlaid with a sumptuous fur. The lord was completely discordant in the stern smithy, between the uncouth bare walls, amongst the dirty instruments and the darkened tools. His long white hands, perfectly manicured, contrasted with the dwarf's calloused and sullied ones. The miserable king faced the arrogant lord. Thorin felt mortified when the tall nobleman approached, his stature disdainful.

Thorin slightly lowered his head in a brief salute; defying a lord could place him in a perilous situation. Besides, he was escorted by armed guards, quite a worrying display to visit a mere blacksmith.

- What do you want, my lord? Thorin asked sharply.

- You, unworthy dwarf, sold me a flawed sword.

- My lord, my weapon was perfectly crafted. I sharpened the blade with great care and the hilt was created according to your detailed instructions…

- Liar! The blade is blunt, the weigh unbalanced and the hilt irregular! My son couldn't practice with such a flawed sword; he cut himself at his first attempt to fence with it. I hold you responsible and I demand reparation.

- When your servants came to recover the sword they appeared satisfied enough to give me my payment. They didn't point out any of the defects you've just raised to me...

- Because you deceived them with your shameless lies, you filthy dwarf, but I am not stupid and your fraud will have no effect on me! I know not to trust your greedy race! You will give me back your pay and I will try not to denounce you and your dishonest trade. I order you to kneel and beg for my forgiveness, he added with a despising rictus.

Thorin was confident in his skills and certain the sword was perfectly conceived. Therefore, he silently fulminated against the lord who tried to exhort him to a belligerent conduct, presumably to justify an arrest. Emboldened by his authority, the perfidious lord probably craved to intoxicate himself with the feeling of superiority caused by the humiliation of a king.

Thorin was admittedly impulsive, but he was resolute not to grant him this satisfaction. Alas, when he raised his fierce stare to directly face the nobleman, he was so full of hatred and disdain that his gaze was perceived as a disgrace. Promptly, the guards approached, raised their weapons at the dwarf and seized him by the collar. Thorin fiercely withstood, although he was unarmed and cornered. When his strong hand violently diverted the closest guard, trying to reach a chisel he could use as a weapon, the lord ordered his men to arrest him. Vociferating insults in khuzdul, Thorin overpowered four of them. The fifth one drew a dagger and attacked him. He dodged the stab but the sharp blade cut his cheek. Before he could retrieve his balance, the guard struck him on the head. The impact forced Thorin to kneel heavily. Such end was a disgrace for a proud king, Thorin thought with a bitter resignation.

Vaguely he heard cries and the sound of a sword being drawn. He though his miserable existence would thus finish... But the lord suddenly collapsed close to him. Confused, Thorin raised his head and noticed, through his dishevelled hair, the defeated lord, lying on the ground, attempting to protect his frightened face behind his imploring hands. His mantle was sullied with dust and his face was deformed by dread, subjugated by his mysterious assailant.

Thorin arose and incredulously contemplated the tiny shape of his protector, dominating the lord with her straight and delicate stature. He couldn't distinguish her face, for she was hidden by the hood of her dark cloak, but she was definitely a woman, slender and feminine, but small, probably smaller than he was. Interminable locks of brown hair had escaped from her hood and floated gracefully at each movement of her perfectly shaped body. A tiny gloved hand was firmly holding a sword while she threatened the throat of the nobleman. She was dressed with a simple but elegant brown riding suit, revealing her beautiful curves. The dwarf king stared at her, his heart pierced by her grave loveliness, and yet he knew he was bound to her, as a castaway would be bound to the shore, with the desperate will to reach the unattainable, to grab it with a distraught rapacity.

The lord foully pleaded to be spared and the confounded guards, drawing their swords, turned towards this frail adversary. Her voice, clear and soft like the morning wind, was heard, while she rapidly addressed the soldiers:

- If you want your master alive, you will sheathe your weapon. Then you will disappear from my sight and refrain yourself from calling reinforcement.

Since they hesitated, she impatiently approached her sword till the edge slightly cut the flesh; the lord whimpered when he felt his warm blood flowing on his neck. Though she appeared vulnerable like a graceful fawn, they guessed, by the confidence of her hand on the hilt and the courage of her determined voice, that she could easily overpower them.

- Are you deaf? Do as you are told! yelled the lord.

Without protest, the guards promptly left. The woman faced the nobleman and inclined her head towards his, offering him the sight of her face amongst the shadows of her hood. What the lord glimpsed, Thorin could not tell, but he seemed frightened as he desperately attempted to escape.

- You, she said fiercely, do not deserve to raise your eyes on this dwarf. If you value your derisory life, you will leave at once and forget this incident. Do not even consider plotting your revenge, else I shall sink my sword into your throat. If you ever raise your hand on him, you will pay the price, and it will cost you your life and all you hold dear.

Haggard and disarranged, the nobleman escaped when she loosened the weight of her sword.

She sheathed her weapon and faced the dwarf. Thorin scrutinised her with inquisitor and ardent eyes. She was indeed small and graceful; her light steps reminded him of the delicate gait of a fawn. Instantly, he was seized with an urgent desire to protect and cherish her. He couldn't distinguish her face, concealed by her hood. Close she was when he could speak and his voice was hoarse with ardour:

- Who are you?

She suddenly fell at his feet and joined her tiny hands in a gesture of absolute devotion. Her whole body was shaking with abandon and he had to repress his desire to hold her against his protective chest.

- Thorin Oakenshield, she said, you are my sovereign and I am your servant. I pledge to you my loyalty and fidelity. I promise to protect and assist you at any cost, for my life is yours entirely. I belong to you and my oath will bind me till death tears me away from you.

The dwarf was overwhelmed by such a pledge; he remained silent and still, but promptly gathered his strength and helped her to lift up with a firm yet tender hand. She gave in to his passionate grip but kept her features hidden by the hood; she seemed afraid to reveal her appearance.

- Your allegiance was immoderate and I do not deserve your honesty; indigent and exiled, I have nothing to offer you but my gratitude and the gratitude of a dwarf is not worth much amongst men.

- My loyalty is disinterested and I demand nothing but the achievement of your fate. You are the great ruler of a proud race and time has come for you to claim your kingdom back. The age of exile and ordeal is over; you will rise again and your future shall be revealed to you. I promise you not the obscure fate of an exiled dwarf, but the destiny of a mighty king who will get his revenge against the fiery dragon and establish his legacy...

- How do you know this? How do you know me? Thorin demanded, taking her small hand into his.

He caressed her palm with his thick thumbs, working to remove the leather glove and reveal her skin. Her breathing accelerated and she tried to claim back her hand, but he held her tight and refused, with a wild grunt, to release her. Soon, the glove was completely removed and Thorin discovered the most perfect hand; the palm was narrow and frail, the fingers long and delicate. Her skin was pale against his tanned skin, but he noticed, embed in her flesh, singular markings, forming elegant volutes. Never had he seen something alike. His finger traced the delicate curves of the markings and he realised how soft was her skin under his own calloused hand. The feeling of her flesh against his moved him deeply; he knew this very instant how he loved her. His heart was resolutely bound to her and his being ached for her tenderness, for she completed him, body and soul.

Still holding her hand, he asked again:

- Who are you?

- My lord, I shall not reveal my identity, for if I did, your life would be in great peril.

- Why should your identity remain a secret? Why would you conceal your appearance to your king? Honour your oath and reveal yourself! Pull back your hood! he ordered firmly.

- I have to disobey your order and disregard your impatience, she said, and the despair in her voice devastated him. Fear not, she added, for later I shall reveal myself, if you still desire me to.

- I do not deserve your loyalty and your concern. I am a king without kingdom and my dignity has abandoned me while I was constrained by exile. Why would such a gentle and strong being bound to this mortified ruin?

- My king, do not judge yourself hastily, for your bravery is unmatched. You are strong and selfwilled, as were the great rulers of your kin. My fate has embraced yours voluntarily, for I take delight in your strength and I found in your noble heart a courage that deeply stirred my soul.

She raised her small hand and softly wiped a scarlet droplet from his wounded cheek. With a feverish sigh, he gave himself to her touch.

- Then you will stay with me, he said softly.

- I will not, not yet. I must leave, farewell my lord.

- No, please, stay, he begged, terrified, grasping her delicate arm, trying to embrace her all. But she was agile and the more he tried to grasp her, the more she diverted from him. You are my shield, you are my life. Grief has darkened my heart but you taught me wisdom, you taught me my heart was an abyss of pain, and you turned the shadows of resentment into the soft light of hope. You are the fragile yet steady haven my being has longed for and I value you more than the wealth of Erebor and Erebor itself. I shall not voluntarily abandon my light after decades of obscurity. Stay, my light! Reveal your face!

She stepped back and adjusted her hood with fear to be discovered. Her tiny frame trembled with emotion.

- My lord, I must leave, but I promise you we shall meet again.

- Do you think I will be satisfied with this? I need to know when! I need to see your face!

Thorin was desperate, a violent passion embraced him and his noble features expressed a feverish affliction. He was in pain that she submitted him to this cruel abandon, for she was the most precious being and he cherished her deeply.

- No! she cried.

Outraged by his fierce behaviour, Thorin released her instantly. His cruelty pained and frightened her, and he was ashamed of wounding her shy heart. He would gladly perish to cease her grief and guilt turned his impetuosity into sorrow. Downhearted, he pleaded in a desperate whisper:

- I beg you, my lady! I do not even know your name!

She was about to run away but she hesitated and turned over again. She witnessed his great concern, and the nobility of his attachment. Hence, she decided to grant him with the gift of her name, a gift the dwarf would cherish till his last breath:

- Eníredis. Eníredis, is my name, farewell!

And she disappeared promptly…

- Wait! cried Thorin. Eníredis, wait!

He chased after her, but she was fast, and she headed towards the crowded market, where her small shape could go unnoticed.

- Wait!

He bumped into various merchants and bystanders, colliding with them violently, still crying for her to wait.

- Eníredis!

He glimpsed her cloak at the corner of the alley but, when he nearly managed to seize the fabric, he savagely collided with a trader, who spilled his basket filled with figs. Bypassing the furious merchant, Thorin raced towards the corner of the street.

But she had disappeared.

He halted and frenetically scrutinised the vicinity, with the distraught stare of a hunted prey, searching for her cloaked figure. A single sob escaped his mouth when he desperately understood she was gone.

- Eníredis, murmured Thorin, dear Eníredis, my life, my queen!

- Thorin? Is that you? called a male voice behind him.

He turned to meet an old dwarf. He recognised his plentiful white beard and soft blue eyes. Balin had a kind smile but, when he saw his king devastated, his benevolent appearance turned into deep worry.

- Thorin, what happened? I received a missive from Óin yesterday, urging me to come. I rode all night, eager to learn more, but I never imagined I would hear a tragedy... What happened?

The dwarf king remained silent while scalding tears escaped his fierce eyes. But, clenching his strong fists in distress and frustration, he felt a soft fabric in his hand. He looked down and found, in his open palm, her leather glove, the glove he eagerly removed from her perfect hand.

- Eníredis, he murmured.

- Who? asked Balin.

Thorin kissed the glove and brought it close to his heart. He silently thanked Eníredis for this inestimable gift. The feeling of the fabric against his skin persuaded him that this encounter was real and not a figment of his imagination. The glove reminded him that they would be reunited and its touch was a promise that he would feel again her gentle skin under his hands and lips. However, he had a duty to accomplish first, for he remembered her pledge and craved to prove himself worthy of her loyalty. The faithful Eníredis would not deplore her attachment and he had to commence his duty. He was determined to accomplish, for her, the fate he had refused to face for himself or his kin. He dreamt to adorn her with the wealth of Erebor and to place her, close to him, as the queen under the mountain. He would face the dragon Smaug with bare hands just to glimpse at her face, hidden in the shadows of her hood.

- Balin, he said with gravity, I have a kingdom to claim back.


	3. Remembrance

Balin and Thorin traversed the market with a nimble gait. The dwarf king remained silent and savage, his sombre face glaring at the vicinity. Balin narrated him his journey and questioned him about Óin's revelation. Throrin didn't appear soften by his warm smile and amiable talk. The old dwarf was accustomed to his king's taciturn character, thus he persisted in relating him his various peregrinations. Finally, Thorin granted him with a description of the recent events; the favourable omen Óin interpreted and his decision to claim his kingdom back. However he deliberately omitted to mention his encounter with the mysterious Eníredis, for he desired to cherish her as an ineffable secret. But Balin was a wise dwarf and the inexorable passing of years granted him with both a sagacious heart and a long beard. He noticed Thorin's grave concern and his usual severity could hardly conceal his deep affliction. Balin easily identified the fine and delicate glove Thorin was firmly holding as the property of a woman. He was greatly confounded, for Thorin was a cloistered soul, jealously revering his confinement and guarding his solitude. He imagined him as a secret and austere king who would rule next to an empty throne, as empty as his heart. They almost arrived to Thorin's quarters when Balin asked abruptly:

- Laddie, I know when a dwarf has experienced an extraordinary event, and you seem to have witnessed quite an apparition before we met.

- You are right Balin, I discovered my queen.

Balin was perceptibly intrigued by this enigmatic statement. Though a discouraging grunt escaped Thorin's lips, defying his interlocutor to continue further, Balin dared question him about her identity.

- I do not desire to elaborate upon this subject, interrupted Thorin, for you would definitely disapprove and pretend my attachment is folly. But I value your wisdom and, since you are a close adviser, I consent to divulge the event; today, a spiteful lord attempted to arrest me for a fault I didn't perpetrate. A cloaked woman interposed herself; her protection spared me a dire fate. She pledged her allegiance and promised her aid to restore Erebor. Finally, she left, abandoning her glove and confiding her name.

- This story of yours is particularly intriguing, lad. I remember you called someone named Eníredis when I approached you...

- Eníredis is her name, confirmed Thorin.

He noticed Thorin's deep concern as he pronounced the delicate name, and his hand grasping the glove with a feverish determination.

- Quite a lovely name, though oddly peculiar, probably of elven origin. However, I invite you to the utmost caution, for we still ignore if she will be aid or foe, and what will be her part in our perilous journey.

- Once, I desperately pleaded with an elven king for compassion and claimed protection for my kin, I implored this disdainful sovereign and reminded him of both mercy and pity a noble heart should detain. I demeaned my pride and kneeled in vain, since was I not granted the least help. I endured his disregard silently, as he watched my kingdom being destroyed and my kin being slaughtered. His refusal was the first of an endless continuation; since the dawn of this dire exile, defection and disinterest veiled my shoulder as a thick and dark cloak. My embittered heart never forgot and never forgave, for no help came, neither that day, nor any day since. Until today, while I was withdrawn in my fierce grief, abandoned to a great anger without hope. Whilst a mighty army refused to assist an allied and wealthy kingdom, she appeared, humbly kneeled before a destitute king and willingly proposed her aid. Once, disgrace darkened my heart when I had to claim for assistance. Henceforth, I shall despise aid no more; I was pleased to feel her little hand circling mine and I was not ashamed to be protected by her small figure.

- What is your intention towards her?

- I intend to claim her as my wife and queen, affirmed Thorin.

Balin remained silent, for he remembered vividly the ineluctable fate of his kin; bound to one creature, they could love only once. This commanding desire could eradicate a kingdom or dismantle a mountain; an enamoured dwarf would wander till his demise to find his beloved, he would face exhaustion and deprivation for a single glance, and would consider himself fulfilled with just a strand of hair from her cherished head. No frontier or impediment would detain a dwarf from constantly coveting and craving for his lover. When a dwarf encountered his love, the feeling was immediate and imperious, and he recognized her instantly as part of his flesh and heart. She alone would complete him and possess both poison and remedy for his languishing heart. He would be sundered with his constant unrest and desire to protect her, torn between passionate hope and severe despair. Her absence would be a perpetual torment, while her attendance would be a delectable rapture. Few were dwarf women amongst their kin and the cloistered men were barely inclined to abandon their kingdom. Therefore, the sons of Mahal mostly never found their loved one and were condemned to a life of perpetual emptiness, where the absence of the beloved was a bitter wound that time scarcely appeased.

Balin realised that Thorin displayed the obvious signs of love; his features expressed a distraught passion and the deep wound he carried in his heart reflected in his feverish eyes. He ached for her constantly, his soul tried to reach her every instant, and his desire was elated by his immense gratitude towards her.

The old dwarf was torn between content and concern, for he feared the woman might cause his downfall. His adoration might constitute a weakness and foes might prey on his devotion. Balin was equally afraid that she might not respond to his love. If she rejected him, the issue would be ineluctable; Thorin would spend years buried in the deepest misery and die of despair, for no torment was more harrowing than an unshared love. But patience would probably reveal her identity and disclose her secret motive, he thought, in an attempt to appease his apprehension. Balin was yet grateful that she spared him imprisonment and inspired him in his desire to claim his kingdom back; he could reckon his reluctance before their encounter. Therefore, the wise dwarf gladly accepted, when Thorin ordered him to remain silent, not to disclose their conversation to the company.

After their arrival, Thorin regained his room and carefully prepared his few effects. He could faintly hear Balin's joyful reunion with Fíli and Kíli beneath. Waiting for the company to return from the daily toil, they shared ales and tales with loud laughs and boisterous exclamations. Thorin remained isolated in his solitude, slowly packing his provisions, sharpening his axe and preparing his shield, a fragment of oaken branch he never abandoned. Then, he removed his sullied tunic, revealing his sturdy and hairy chest, and dressed with his dark blue garment, diamond shaped brigandine armour and black velvet surcoat. He adjusted his massive leather vambrace and his imposing belt. Finally, he prepared for the travel a leather surcoat with an abundant fur lining. This attire enhanced the strength of his small yet robust body and the majesty of his noble appearance.

He finished his preparation while the noon rays broke through the wide opened window; light and wind dived into the room and ruffled his face, invading his weary heart with warmth and hope. He recovered the little glove he had concealed close to his chest and caressed the fabric as if it was her soft skin. His thick fingers detailed every seam of the fabric and he kissed it repeatedly, smelling the musky odour of the leather and the lingering honeysuckle fragrance of its owner. He was torn from his suave thoughts by the distinctive cry of a raptor.

Astonished, he turned and noticed, proudly standing at the ledge of the window, a slender brown hawk. The bird was beautiful; its chestnut flecked coat was enhanced with golden feathers and its soft black eye was shining with confidence.

Thorin gradually realised this hawk was strangely familiar; he was acquainted to its sharp stare and agile wing. He was a young dwarf when they first met, a grave prince in a wealthy kingdom. He remembered this dire day, the day of the dragon's arrival.

At daybreak, Thorin was wandering along the massive fortification, adroitly sculpted within the Lonely Mountain, breathing the gentle wind. The zephyr maliciously played with the light-blue standards of Erebor, embroidered with gold and proudly aligned in a display of prosperity. The dwarf listened to the pleasurable chirp of an early robin with a pensive heart. The city of Dale was idly resting, protected by the mountain, and Thorin could admire the thriving edifices, bathed by the golden rays of the rising sun, shining with a soft tawny colour. Concealed beneath the mountain, Erebor solely revealed its stately gate and solid rampart. Guarding the portal with an empty and defying stare, two statues of dwarf soldiers framed the entrance, reinforcing the impregnable aspect of the doorway. The robust appearance of the facade dissimulated the wealth of the kingdom; inside, the mountain formed an immense cavity, joining the depths of the earth. But the eternal night was enlightened with innumerable lanterns; delving deep into the core of the mine, each dwarf was accompanied by his light, faithful and watchful friend. Above the infinite precipice, at the centre of the mountain, reigned the king Thrór, and his throne was adorned with the symbol of his divine strength, the Arkenstone, with its thousand facets shining as the pure stars and pale moon. Delicately chiselled and arranged in an intricate disposition, infinite bridges, slender stairs and suspended aisles bestrode the void with a defiant arrogance. Each path led to the abundant ramifications of the kingdom, with its vast halls, forges and apartments, adorned with solemn statues, vaulted corridors, high columns and heavy pillars. Erebor was the cold emerald of the dwarves, crowned with green marble and veined with gold.

This particular day, at dawn, a falcon landed on a crenel and screeched vehemently to lure the dwarf prince. He approached, intrigued, but the bird deployed its wings with an alarming glance. Thorin examined the creature while it left, furiously drawing circles over him and then circling above the gate before it eventually disappeared. Aback by such a peculiar conduct, Thorin frowned but promptly forgot this oddity; he didn't realise the hawk had tried to warn him.

Later, a dry wind came south and the forest nearby creaked sharply. The pine-trees leant suddenly, alarming the sentinel. Thorin approached and witnessed the destruction of Dale. A great fire-breathing dragon had come from the north and was gliding above the city; its wings wiped out the towers, its claws destroyed the houses and its fire burned the vicinity, till Dale became a burned and scorched ruin. The horn resounded in alarm while Balin rejoined Thorin close to the crenel. The wind was fiercely blowing, tearing apart the banners of the kingdom, carrying leaves and branches from the near wood in a blast of desolation.

Balin was about to question the prince when he grabbed him fiercely. Both hid behind a column before fire erupted over the rampart. The furnace was unleashed and fire surrounded the dwarves in a searing embrace. Thorin tried to protect the elder dwarf from the blaze and cried strongly, for he was oppressed by the heath. The fire ceased suddenly. The reptile was beneath, exhaling its flaming breath at the facade. Thorin yelled and gathered his army to defend the front gate, for the worm would attempt to enter the kingdom by its weak point. A thundering growl echoed the prince's battle cry when he stood before the massive door.

- Stand firm, ordered Thorin, facing the sealed gate.

Though he was a great dwarf, Thorin appeared fragile; his sturdy chest was tightened in a deep blue tunic, adorned with silver embroidery, and his broad shoulder was concealed under a large dark fur collar. Bravely the dwarf prince stood ahead of his loyal army. Heavily attired with their mithril armour and helmet, the soldiers were radiant, long beard proudly spread over the shiny breastplate. The prince sharply drew his sword and yelled a command in khuzdûl. The fierce and obedient dwarves raised both spear and shield, awaiting the coming calamity.

The dragon hit the gate with such strength that the side of the mountain trembled. Massive claws rapidly dismantled the sealed door, projecting dust and ash. The reptile crept inside the kingdom with its serpentine gait, it crushed and shredded the army in its path and breathed its torrid blast upon the unfortunate battalion, tragically consumed into the stifling furnace. Thorin barely escaped a sharp claw and surmised the worm headed for the treasure room, attracted by the stored piles of gold from the kingdom's wealth. Thorin suddenly worried about his grandfather; Thrór was consumed by his adoration for gold and shared with the dragon this sickness of the mind. The king was probably hidden in the vast vault, endeavoured to secure his wealth from the invader.

Thorin rushed behind the dragon and entered the vault, but he was stymied by a dreadful vision. The carefully arranged treasure, with its preciously stacked gold coins, its pearls and gems thoroughly enshrined in prized chests, had become an infuriated tide. The dragon bathed within the plentiful hoard and gold slid at each of its movement in gleaming waves and shining swirls. Through the precious undulations, Thorin could distinguish the blazing scales of the creature, weaving with contentment in its mighty plunder. His grandfather was desperately trying to retrieve the Arkenstone amongst the living treasure, mesmerised by this tempest of gold, which delicate chime promptly increased in a deep thunder. When Thorin seized Thrór, the old king refused to abandon the most prized of his possessions, but he finally yielded to his grandson's urging, for the worm had unleashed a golden storm and threatened to devour them in its ardent embrace of fire and gold.

Thorin painfully supported Thrór and dragged him away from the beast. They traversed Erebor with an increasing affliction, for the once lively and thriving kingdom was an empty and desolate ruin. Thorin and Thrór had to step over the pitiful downfall of their kingdom. The prince almost failed to maintain his strength when he glimpsed at the marble flagstone, covered with dust and debris. He kept his eyes straight ahead, trying not to notice the bestrewed fragments of the once mighty statues along the great hall. Each statue, representing a sovereign of the Durin line, was destroyed and disfigured. The one representing king Thrór had been beheaded by the muscled wing of the dragon.

When they left the Lonely Mountain, they feared they would never return home again and their eyes expressed a great affliction. Promptly, the dwarves who escaped the disaster organised their survival, their heart saddened by this sudden misfortune and alarmed by the forthcoming ordeal. Thorin's desperate stare wandered about the nearby landscape and he contemplated the desolation caused by the dragon; the forest was a scorched stretch of burned wood and the city of Dale was a pitiful ruin. The prince noticed in the distance the elven king and his army. King Thranduil impassively attended their eviction and ordered his legion to stand still. Thorin feverishly called for aid, but the king and his army slowly departed. They abandoned the sons of Mahal to their dreadful fate, ignoring the tragic disarray of a kin who once was an ally, and Thorin's tale to Balin was no falsehood.

Thorin remembered this dire day, for his kin never recovered from the injury and the humiliation caused by their eviction. The dwarves of the Lonely Mountain were brought low, forced to wander and labour in the land of men, deprived of their kingdom and betrayed by their friends. The dragon conquered his realm more than a century ago, but Thorin perfectly recognised the hawk and its apparition had awakened vivid recollections that were long buried in his mind. Though a simple falcon shouldn't have survived longer than a decade, Thorin was sure to identify the bird of prey and its quiet confidence confirmed his conviction. The bird scrutinised the dwarf with a wise stare, a stare that witnessed the quiet autumn of countless realms and the wistful decline of numerous kings.

- This, he asked, approaching the falcon and holding out her glove, does belong to your master, doesn't it?

Thorin had the persistent intuition that the bird was the messenger of Eníredis. The intrigued kestrel inclined its head, but it let a soft affirmative shriek slip from its beak.

- How could I have been so wrong! I spent more than a century alone, cloaked in misery and grief, blinded by my animosity, and I felt betrayed by the world. She is the silent aid I have forever yearned for, and I was unable to find her, yet she was devotedly behind me and tried to save and assist me! When you appeared, the day the dragon devastated Erebor, did you come to warn me by her command?

The hawk inflated its throat with pride. Thorin displayed the signs of a growing trouble, for the bird had confirmed, in its animal manner, what his heart already considered as the truth.

The dwarf prince desperately tried to remember inexplicable events in his past, attempting to retrieve, in his confused memory, the vestiges of her passing. But Eníredis had a light gait and she could conceal herself from his sight with the innocent skill of a fawn. Soft as the fluttering of a wing in the spring wind, reserved as a little bird exiled from its nest, she could have remained unnoticed for decades, gently dispensing her gift and guard without being seen.

However, Thorin suddenly associated her cloaked figure with a most intriguing event; he never could explain the apparition but their encounter could certainly clarify it. Again, she appeared in adversity, as if the peril of the situation constrained her to reveal her presence. The danger was great indeed during the deadly battle of Azanulbizar. King Thrór, deprived of his realm, tried to reclaim the ancient dwarf kingdom of Moria, long invested by the disloyal orcs, who had sworn to decimate the race of Mahal. The stately gates of the mighty Moira observed the slaughter, indifferent to the stream of scarlet blood endlessly flowing at its entrance. The hardy dwarves were fiercely fighting, and their bravery was unmatched amongst the races of Middle-Earth. Alas, they were outnumbered by their dishonest foes, tirelessly cutting their flesh and entrails. Victorious cries already echoed in the battlefield while the dwarves, gained by exhaustion and despondence, slowly abandoned their fight, eyes filled with defeated tears, head surrendered to the blade of the enemy.

They almost yielded when Azgog the Defiler swept down on his closest opponents, ejecting dislocated limbs and bleeding heads around him. His spectral appearance would suffice to dishearten the most hardened dwarf; his pallid skin was hollowed with deep scars and his ignoble face was perverted with an unsightly rictus. The Pale Orc had sworn to wipe out the line of Durin. He approached Thrór with an insane laugh and struck a deadly blow to the fierce king. Thrór warded off with his shiny mithril shield and tried to counter attack, raising his heavy axe. Thrór was a fierce dwarf, and though his beard was white with old age, he fought with an incomparable strength and Durin himself wouldn't shamefully divert his gaze from his descendant. But the end of the duel was imminent. While he furiously killed his own assailant, Thorin glimpsed at his grandfather and noticed with concern that his hand weakened on his silver axe and that his large shield failed to protect him from Azgog's repeated assaults.

The Pale Orc abruptly disarmed Thrór with his heavy mace. Rapidly, he pulled the hair of the dwarf king and, in a fatal bite of his weapon, beheaded him. His triumphant laugh petrified the doleful warriors, who wept for their noble king and tried to desperately defeat their opponents. The victorious orc displayed the severed head to the appalled audience and threw it away in an irreverent gesture. The head fell to Thorin's feet. The desperate prince gave out an enraged cry before he charged his enemies with an increased ferocity. Athirst to avenge his grandfather, he fought with the energy of despair, his axe and sword cutting orc flesh with a fierce determination.

But his tenacity fell whilst his exhaustion arose; the combat was already lost, for his grandfather was dead and his father, Thráin, had disappeared. He probably was amongst the fallen, thought Thorin, and the pain in his heart tormented him knowing he stood alone. He would be king, since his father certainly was dead, but crowned with the blood of his kin, and there was no glory in reigning over a vanquished clan. His noble face was covered with blood and dirt darkened his features. However, his gaze was sharp and pale, enhanced by the shadows of his face, while he defied the belligerent orcs. He was cornered and shattered, conscious that the defeat was imminent. His companions fell bravely around him in a desperate attempt to invert the end of the battle. Balin and Dwalin fought at his side with the strength of despair, and he could find in their eyes similar disarray. If they had to perish, at least they would have succumbed with an indomitable dedication. Thorin threw himself headlong into the valiant massacre and cut the throat of many orcs. Yet the host did not diminish and he erelong was encircled by a multitude of spiteful enemies. Balin and Dwalin tried to clear the path to reach and protect him, but their heavy axe couldn't scatter the horde.

Thorin knew he was lost but he did not surrender. Though his hand trembled lightly, he still bravely faced the enemy, determined to deserve the death of a worthy heir of Durin. After an interminable fight, during which he proved his value a hundredfold, he was finally disarmed and assailed. He stumbled and feverishly tried to retrieve his sword and shield amongst the fallen. He briefly glimpsed at the deadly shadow behind him; his weapon raised above the dwarf, his opponent was about to pull his hair and behead him. Thorin closed his weary eyes, awaiting his demise. His strength had abandoned him and grief had gained his heart. He longed to rest by the side of his father and grandfather.

The pressure on his hair decreased suddenly. He lowered his head and found lying on the ground a neatly severed hand, the hand that had pulled his hair, abundantly pouring with a dark fluid. Thorin gazed briefly at the soil saturated with blood and turned his desperate stare at the foreigner who had suddenly interposed himself and spared him a dreadful fate. He was cloaked and dressed with dark brown armour. Thorin thought he was a dwarf, for he had the size of his kin. But his appearance inspired a great frailty and he was devoid of the broad strength a dwarf is naturally endowed. His face was diligently concealed by a deep hood. No beard fell above the curved breastplate and Thorin could not distinguish his features.

He carried a spear with a shaft of engraved wood and a head of bronze; skilled he was, for he mercilessly cut his path through the orc flesh and protected Thorin from the enemy. His spear whirled with an incredible grace, but the strange suavity of his gestures equated the fury of his assaults, and he slaughtered with a resolute determination the creatures that dared approach the dwarf prince. The skill and strength of the fighter stupefied Thorin, particularly when he glimpsed at the frailty of his shape that the armour barely dissimulated. Thick blood poured while he speared the despised enemies and Thorin felt revivified by such a display of bravery; he grasped his shield and sword, and fought by the warrior's side, determined to prove himself worthy of his defence. They were joined by Balin and Dwalin and they together threatened to reverse the end of the fight.

The Pale Orc realised fate favoured his enemies and abandoned his side, for the orc legion gradually diminished. He recognised, amongst the fierce fighters, the heir of Durin and he approached the dwarf prince with great determination, resolute to eradicate the great line. Armed with his heavy mace, he attacked Thorin, who narrowly avoided the strike. His sword unmatched the weighty weapon and his shield barely protected him from the repeated blows, but he stood courageously and counter attacked with great strength. The abiding clatter of his sword against the mace was mesmeric. With an enraged cry, Thorin tried to disarm the Pale Orc, but his attempt was vain and his shield was violently torn from his hand.

Azgog prepared his mace with a satisfied grin and Thorin would have been hit by the weapon if the cloaked warrior didn't interpose himself, deeply cutting the flesh of the orc with the head of his spear. By his attacks of a striking grace and fluidity, he shrank the orc from the dwarf and weakened him in his incessant assaults. However, his frailty couldn't match the strong orc and, with a prompt and violent blow, Azgog the Defiler projected him away. He fell amongst the vanquished and didn't recover. His cloaked figure remained lying on the ground.

Thorin raced towards the tiny shape with great worry; he saved him twice during the battle and his gratitude equalled his concern. The cloak, lightly raised by the wind, hid the appearance of the fighter and the gravity of his injury. Thorin kneeled and attempted to grasp the lying warrior. But before he could touch him and bring his face at him, the Pale Orc dominated them with his dreadful height. The dwarf grabbed his shield and avoided the sudden strike. Alas, a second blow projected his shield and sword away and the impact left him defenceless; Thorin was facing Azgog the Defiler deprived of his weapon. He eluded the frenetic mace and seized the dry remainder of an oaken branch. He used it as a makeshift shield while he tried to retrieve his sword. The mace couldn't shatter the solid wood and, when the Pale Orc tried to destroy the branch, Thorin seized his sword and cut the exposed arm of the orc.

Azgog the Defiler was defeated and his cry of pain could be heard all over the battlefield. The horrible sound alarmed the orcs and reinvigorated the dwarves. Whereas the Pale Orc was escorted behind the gates, desperately holding his bleeding stump, the dwarves savagely answered to Thorin's call:

- _Du Bekâr_!_ Du Bekâr_!

They fought ferociously and mercilessly slaughtered the defeated orcs, who retreated into the kingdom of Moria, with great fear in their eyes, staring at the glorious shape of Thorin, silhouetted on the sunset. His coat of mail and leather surcoat were stained with thick blood and he stood fierce, treading upon the corpses of his enemies, holding his oaken shield, and to his kin and foe, he would be known with the name Oakenshield. The dwarves definitely won the battle, inspired by Thorin's bravery into combat. Though the enemy had been defeated, the dwarves did not feast or rejoice, for they lost many and tears blinded their kind eyes when they mourned the death of their kin and grieved the demise of their king. Thorin did not celebrate his consecration as king, for his heart was obscured by acrimony and great was his desolation. He reigned over an exiled race, deprived of kingdom and his burden was forsooth heavy.

He joined Balin and Dwalin and they tried to retrieve Thráin amongst the fallen, but they couldn't find him. Thorin pretended a thorough search in order to secretly find the vestige of the brave fighter who protected him twice, but he couldn't find him; he had disappeared and left nary imprint. Dwalin helped Thorin but couldn't elucidate this mystery either.

While they gathered and honoured their dead, Thorin respectfully glorified the bravery of the warrior and he felt an inexplicable misery when he thought of his sacrifice, added to the grief he felt for both his father and grandfather.

-She was the warrior, wasn't she? Thorin asked to the falcon. During the deadly battle of Azanulbizar, she appeared at the most desperate moment and saved me from a dreadful death. Her bravery, when she fought the Pale Orc, inspired me the strength to defeat the enemy.

He had to restrain a sudden and irrational worry for she had been most probably wounded during the battle. Though forlorn years had passed since the battle of Azanulbizar, he tormented himself with the thought of the suffering she may had endured, forsaken and hurt, and he was stirred that she attended her wounds alone, without his care and comfort.

- Though my confused mind didn't recall her precisely, my resolute heart remembered her delicate stature and recognised her early. Her path has certainly crossed mine without my knowing... But why does she disappear when I attempt to seize her and why does she remain hidden when I adjure her to reveal herself? How long has she silently protected me without demanding the least gratitude? I have to find and claim her, for I swear to the line of Durin she shall never be parted from my love and I intend to requite her loyalty.

A loud knock at his door interrupted Thorin and frightened the bird. The latter disappeared with a last shriek. Thorin sighed and opened the door to Kíli.

- Uncle, he exclaimed with a radiant smile, we are ready to leave.

- Then we shall leave at once, Kíli.

- What is your plan? he asked while Thorin retrieved his belongings and headed for the corridor.

- We will travel northward. The ancient alliances are broken and the dwarven armies are dispersed. I shall convince the wilful warriors of the seven kingdoms to offer their axes. Thus I shall raise a hearing in Ered Luin and claim the presence of envoys from each kingdom. Meanwhile, Balin shall advise our kin living in the Blue Mountains and gather the faithful dwarves who are willing to join our quest. Once done, we shall meet in Eriador before we begin the journey. While we depart, we shall plan further the details of our duty.

- I am glad you decided to take back Erebor after all. This will be a long journey, Kíli added with an innocent grin.

- Aye, a long journey it will be, Thorin confirmed, grasping at the little glove.


	4. A Nocturnal Conversation

Dusk gently spread its dark mantle and the shy stars bathed lightly the opulent forest; the pale evening gems, embed in the rich coat of blue velvet, dispensed an ethereal light upon the grateful nature, weary of the elated day. The forest was still and the tranquil hoot of early owls resonated in the woodland, quiet call awakening the nocturnal life. The fertile earth was covered with a verdant cape of dense moss and damp grass, adorned with mushrooms, fallen leaves and acorns. The great boughs were heavy with plentiful leaves and luxuriant lichens. The chilly air smelled of foliage softly bathed with the twilight dew. Vegetation developed with vigour at the heart of the forest, and rarely men ventured in this scented temple; untouched was the soil and uncorrupted was the nature. The abundance of trees and the density of their foliage smothered the thin ether, and the fragrances exuding from the wood stifled the atmosphere. With the arrival of the night, a multitude of nocturnal creatures awoke and hastened to their labour with a feverish agitation. Devoted to the accomplishment of their crepuscular ritual, they were indifferent to the communion of life in the sombre temple of the forest. The midnight blue of the sky was sometimes visible at the crown of the mighty oaks, antique pillars which audacious branches endeavoured to gather the lonely stars and protect them in their outstretched leaves.

Eníredis quietly rested amongst the large roots of a great tree. She felt reassured by the old wrinkled bark, scattered with verdant moss and enlaced with vigorous ivy. Her tiny hand grasped the root in a childish gesture, content with the protective embrace of the woodland. She suddenly heard a muffled sound and she sharply climbed a thick root. She surveyed the vicinity with a fearful eye, keen to discover what had interrupted the silence of the nature. While she peeped, her furtive head appeared from the interlaced roots and a solitary walker could confuse her for a timid woodland spirit abandoning her pleasant dwelling and peering out at the world with a timid wonder. The long strands of her brown hair caressed the old roots as if she was joined to the wild wood, and her markings seemed an amber sap bathed in the dim light, lit with gold in the gleam of the fire she had ignited nearby, to find consolation in the ardent flame.

But the forest was quiet and alone she was, pleased with her solitude. She had removed her hood and her cloak; the fabric was carefully covering her quivery lap and warmed her in the fresh night. She sighed softly when Súlchon fluttered to her and landed on a close root. She rested her weary head on her fragile hand and smiled with delight at a secret thought. Yet she was cruelly torn from her soft dream by the frantic falcon; it pecked her hand and pulled her hair with its fierce beak. Eníredis abandoned her reverie and opened a manuscript, handling the leather cover with a feverish expectation. At intervals, while turning over the pages of the ancient book, she studied the aspect of the tranquil night and watched with a smile the soft flock of an errant moth. She had barely finished her chapter when Súlchon landed on her shoulder and stuck its sharp talons into her flesh. She ordered it to leave its perch on her fragile shoulder, but it protested with a vehement shriek.

She closed the tome with a discouraged sigh and chased the hawk away when she arose and attempted to revive the fire. While she faced the flames, she appeared like a fiery apparition, for fire slithered in her ardent eyes with a serpentine grace, and she resembled a fair witch who could command fire and wind. Her soft mare quietly rested close to the fire. Accustomed to its singular master, it was not frightened by her spectral appearance, but it neighed gently and turned its worried black eye to her.

Eníredis sensed a hidden presence and she suddenly experienced a great fright. She had the certainty that a creature observed her in the shade, concealed in the darkness that thrived under the dense foliage. The persistent anxiety of her hawk and mare confirmed her fear. She restrained her abrupt terror and, with a firm hand, she calmly revived the fire and feigned she did not notice the threat. Súlchon perched nearby and inspected the dark woodland. Eníredis left the illuminated clearing and ambled towards the deep forest with a tranquil pace. She gathered fallen branches in her graceful arm with the intent to lure the spy; she seemed to collect wood in order to vitalize the fire, but instead she promptly disappeared from sight and, with the agility of a doe, she leaped nimbly, silently drew her sword and slipped into the dark. Her light steps had the forest as benevolent ally; neither a rustle of leaves nor a crack of branches could be heard.

The unforeseen spy emerged from the shade and came closer to the deserted camp. Tall he was and his great shape wore a large grey robe. His face was concealed by a blue pointed hat and a silver scarf, and only a grey beard and a long nose were visible. He walked with a wooden staff, though he was straight and alert despite his old age. When he reached the trunk against which Eníredis had put her burden, a keen blue eye shone beneath the shadow of his hat. The curious intruder examined the various effects and muttered with confusion when he noticed a delicately engraved spear with a bronze head amongst the maiden's weaponry. The old man, immersed in his contemplation, failed to notice the approach of a furtive shadow behind him. He realised much too late that the edge of a sword was aimed at his throat. He remained silent and still for a brief moment and chuckled lightly when he lowered his gaze to his childlike assailant.

- My dear Eníredis! Each time we encounter you aim a weapon at me, it appears, he said with a teasing smile.

- You are the one to blame, Mithrandir. You prefer to approach me stealthily rather than introduce yourself decently. Thereby you should expect from me the reception I generally reserve for scoundrels.

She sheathed her sword and smiled shrewdly. Gandalf the Grey laughed with relief when he noticed the lovely dimples on her adorable cheeks. He bowed respectfully at her amiable smile and she quietly bowed in return.

- My lady, it is a vivid delight to be threatened by such a fair maiden.

- And it is a joy, Mithrandir, to be honoured with your usual praise. Share with me the fire, if you please, for the nights are cold and impish creatures apparently wander in the woodland, she added with a smile.

Gandalf consented and quietly took place in front of the fire. He extended a wrinkled hand and warmed his long fingers close to the flames, enjoying their warmth on his shivering fingertips. He then lit his long wooden pipe and begun to smoke with a satisfied grin on his face. Eníredis offered him a cup of tea; she had heated a pot filled with the clear water of a forest stream and infused fragrant leaves in the warm liquid. The old man gladly accepted the amber brew. Eníredis sat on a root, at the other side of the fire, and silently looked at him, slowly sipping her own beverage. While she put her delicate lips at the cup, her odd eyes gleamed in a blaze of gold and emerald, and the moving flames reflected in her ebony pupils. Though Gandalf was enchanted by their magnificence, he was somehow disturbed by their troubling intensity. He turned his gaze away and examined the hawk, which had decided to furtively approach and perch on a close branch. He observed an instant Súlchon while it smoothed its feathers with one agile foot and stared at the unexpected guest with a distrustful stare.

Gandalf initiated a quiet conversation and encouraged his enigmatic interlocutor to narrate her last journey on Middle-Earth. While Eníredis began her tale, Gandalf leant against a trunk and smoked with delight. He created a ring with his smoke and she smiled at the sight of an ethereal bird of smoke which flew through the ephemeral ring. The spiced perfume of Old Toby weed filled the air. Soft was the honey of her voice when she spoke, and her talk was full of wisdom and melancholy. Gandalf felt a vivid pleasure to hear her depict the lore of those she visited and describe her roving in the foreign lands of Middle-Earth. She was observant and unerring was her memory. The wizard was enraptured at her skilful precision and at the details she consented to display with the initiated smile of an immortal touched by the grace of temporal beauty. His eyes half-closed, he listened to her, ravished by the finesse of her discussion and the delicacy of her voice. However, Eníredis deliberately omitted to narrate her encounter with Thorin Oakenshield, but Gandalf was no dupe and, when he noticed her elusive stare and the entranced light in her eye, he suspected that she dissimulated a decisive event. He chuckled lightly at her lovely confusion and regarded her as a maiden who would conceal the first touch of her beloved with an untamed humility. Eníredis, troubled by his puckish smile, hid her soft face behind the silken curtain of her hair with a growing discomfort and suddenly asked:

- What brings you to this place, Mithrandir?

- I am in Eriador for the same reason you are, lady Eníredis, and this reason is, to be precise, a certain dwarf king...

The lovely maiden shyly veiling her blushing face no longer existed; she proudly stood before Gandalf and appeared in her terrible wrath. She dominated Gandalf's shape with a deadly stare; indecipherable were her eyes and they flared with a sharp glow, blazing like a pale sword. The forest hushed suddenly and awaited the fierce storm, for a great light illuminated her alone and left the woodland dark. The fire flickered while a sudden wind cleared her hair from her face, beautiful beyond enduring. Her features were feverish with ire and passion. She was worshipful as an idol of war and powerful as an army. Her enigmatic beauty was fearsome and she equalled in magnificence an elven queen.

Gandalf faced her cruel stare and feigned his apparent calm, for he fought inside to confront the fiery apparition. He understood this instant why the Valar feared her kin. They concealed her kindred with a great fright, for anyone who would dominate her or her people would detain a power that could annihilate and eradicate innumerable kingdoms. They possessed a mysterious skill that could entice the rapacity of many and lure the darkest soul. Even the first children of Ilúvatar could forget their wisdom and embolden to capture their art, for they coveted their erudition and desired to detain their insight. A corrupted mind could hold infinite power and enslave the world if he subdued them. The Valar consulted their mysterious science with a respectful deference and honoured them as their equal, for they controlled a part of the creation they did not perceive yet. Immortal they were, and their wisdom matched their stealth, and no pestilence brought a shadow to their bright forehead. They nourished their secrecy and accepted their banishment, for they refused to reveal their existence. Forgotten myths kept record of their obscure race, immemorial legends that initiated elves murmured. Never had they ventured in Middle-Earth, for they knew they would be captured by spiteful beings, and they cherished the shroud of concealment that wreathed them in a protective embrace.

Eníredis held an immeasurable power and almighty she was, and she inspired a great fear even amongst her kindred. Her presence in Middle-Earth compromised herself and her kin, for evil could claim her and convert her into a terrible weapon. Gandalf had long ignored why she wandered far from her native continent. Constrained to exile, she concealed her aim as an ineffable secret and he could find in her languid eye, saddened by ordeal, an ardent fever. She relentlessly roved and fled, frightened to reveal her appearance; only the Maiar who shared a fragment of her journey and the wisest elves who received her in their quiet haven, when her incessant tribulation cruelly injured her frail head, were enlightened by her sacred appearance. Though she ferociously refused to reveal her secret aim, she captivated her hosts by the depth of her wisdom and her humility equalled her beauty. They recognised in her an immortal endowed with great strength, but disinterested in the restive thirst of power, dignified as a maiden who humbly suffered the solitude of seclusion. She could order countless realms and claim the reverence of kings and lords upon her, but her heart dwelt with generosity and she had decided to remain forsaken instead. Gandalf, stirred by her deep grief, never achieved to extort the motive of her exile and accepted her enigmatic company with a kind restraint. She withheld the thorn in her heart with the elated rapture of a martyr.

- How do you know this? asked she, and her voice was deep as thunder.

- I met Thorin Oakenshield while he returned from Ered Luin, where he requested the aid of the seven dwarf kingdoms, Gandalf explained calmly. I offered to join his journey and he accepted, for I once was acquainted with his father Thráin, and the skill of a wizard may be profitable. Since I tirelessly wander in Middle-Earth, Thorin secretly interrogated me and his insistence equalled his concern. He imperiously ordered me to keep our conversation secret, but since you are involved, I shall display to you his request. Though he forcefully strived to convince his kin to join his journey and displayed a resolute determination, he was diminished by a secret torment and ceaselessly craved for a tiny maiden. He wisely thought that an old wizard could enlighten him about a frail woman, small as a dwarf but graceful as an elf child. He described her fey hand, strangely adorned with interlaced spirals, as the most beautiful apparition. When I hastened him with questions, his ardour was tempered with despair and he conceded that he could never descry her face, for she refused to remove her hood and remained cloaked in the shade. Albeit she emboldened to reveal her name to him, he refused to disclose the soft word in my presence. Only one creature in Middle-Earth could fit this description, and I have her in front of me at the very moment.

- What did you reveal to him?

- Absolutely nothing. Your secrets are safe with me and I almost broke the dwarf's heart pretending I did not know such a person.

Eníredis sighed with relief when she learned that Gandalf did not reveal her identity, but she was deeply pained and she figured that the dwarf would be profoundly saddened that his quest was vain. Had he searched for her in each shade, craving to find her small shape? Had his determination failed when he realised she was unattainable? Thorin was fierce and forceful, and she knew he would be deeply upset that she escaped his sight and hold. Her whole body ached for Thorin and the pain she felt to be separated from him was almost unbearable. However, she had to take her distance since their last encounter, for she feared that their reunion would irremediably bind her to him in a way she did not even foresee. She suddenly let herself sit and turned again into the childlike and lovely creature Gandalf was accustomed to. Doleful and tearful she was. She braced her small arms around her chest in a desperate posture. Her saddened heart was contrite and seized with doubt. She closed her weary eyes and desolate tears flew freely along her cheeks.

- Thorin, she murmured softly.

Moved by her sudden fit of frailty, Gandalf sat close to her and squeezed her small hand in a respectful gesture.

- Lady Eníredis, we met in an ancient time, while I was in my youth and still named Olórin. Since then, we've known each other throughout the centuries and I met you twice in the realm that is yours; you taught me wisdom and initiated me to the depth of your gift. When I discovered you, hidden in Ered Mithrin, your side was sullied with the blood of a deep wound and your face was stirred with despair. Though I entrusted you to the care of the elves and often crossed your path since, I ignored, until my conversation with Thorin Oakenshield, why you left your kin and wandered in exile, why you willingly faced death and despair. I wrongly thought that you erred purposeless, but none would voluntarily face such exile without aim. I admit I once feared you and thought you served a dire duty, for your kin is most changeable and may one day serve a dark purpose. I realise how wrong I have been to distrust you and I should have noticed that your arrival in Middle-Earth coincided with the fall of Erebor; for all times you have been attempting to protect a mortal, and a dwarf moreover. And you were not only guarding him from the perils fate placed ahead of him, but equally from yourself, because you feared to steer the wrath of your kin upon him. I admire your dedication and honour your sacrifice. However, I sincerely think that you should reveal yourself to him and avow your attachment.

- I cannot, she exclaimed in despair, he shall not suffer by my fault! Forsaken and forlorn I am, and my presence in Middle-Earth compromises me and my kin. I disobeyed the sacred rule and betrayed my race to protect a mere mortal, and I desecrated the immemorial vow of my order. My profanation reached such disloyalty that I cannot feel contrition for my sin, and my heart is filled with delight, dedicated to his protection. No longer do I belong to my kin, for I am bound to him and abandoned immortality to fully embrace his fate. I decided long ago to willingly share his exile and, though I am pleased to protect him, I do not demand his gratitude and wish to remain invisible. My people may avenge my affront and if they ever learn that I cherish Thorin and that he is nearest to my heart, they will attempt to affect me through him. I shall not accept this; I would rather be damned for eternity and wander aimlessly in this land than bring upon him the wrath of my kin. I shall preserve him and remain hidden. If my identity is revealed to him, he shall be in great peril.

- You should enlighten him with your company, my dear child, and should not fear his attachment. You covertly protected him for more than a century but your recent encounter disrupted what you had initially envisaged. You unleashed in the dwarf a fierce passion, a passion that would have magnificently blossomed if you had approached the prince at the dawn of exile, a passion that you contained beneath the dark veil of secrecy. You cannot fathom the depth of his distressful love; though you intended to protect him, you abandoned him to a plight far more painful than the loss of his realm and crown. Ridden with grief and guilt, he deplores the bygone years he should have spent by your side, and he realises in a bitter lament that he endured an eternity of exile for he was separated from you. You should explain to him the peril you may represent and the ordeal you are through, especially since he realised the depth of his deprivation. He shall not rest until you reveal yourself or, at least, approach him. Pure is your devotion but you still are ignorant of what dwells in a mortal heart. He shall gladly accept the danger of your revelation for the delight of your presence, and he shall willingly fight at your side whatever enemy may threaten you. You may not even need to reveal your face or avow who you truly are; he shall be content knowing that you are not alone, far from his care, and maybe in greater danger than he is. I have never seen a dwarf with such fierce passion and ardent love in his eyes; you won his complete adoration, my lady. Faithful he is and he would find you at the end of the world if hither you had hidden. His greed is for you entirely and the rapacity dwarves entertain for gold, he entertains it for the treasure that you are to his heart. Though he is from a stern and austere race, he trusts you completely and his abandon proves his attachment. I promised my aid, but I cannot assist him while he is consumed by his desire for you and if he languishes for you during his quest, he shall endanger himself continuously.

A great fear could be seen in her features and Gandalf was grieved by the sorrow he perceived in her languishing eyes. She remained silent, absorbed by her preoccupied thoughts, hiding her beautiful face behind the soft strands of her hair. The wizard, after an eternity of silence, shoved his pipe in the fold of his grey robe and decided to continue his journey.

- My dear, I must leave, for a long walk awaits me. Tomorrow I will reach Hobbiton to recruit a member of the company. He will be a great addition and you would probably like him very much. At nightfall, the dwarves who answered the call will meet at Bilbo Baggins' hobbit hole. Thorin will join the party, since he is on his way back from Ered Luin. Then we will discuss the last details of the journey and will depart afterwards. I do hope you will enlighten us with your presence and I count on your visit.

He rapidly left, but before he reached the edge of the woodland, he added, with a wise smile:

- The place is called Bag-End and the door of the hole is made of green oak with a yellow brass knob. I will draw a sign on it, probably a rune... Farewell!

Then he silently disappeared into the night. Alone, Eníredis weighed his words and they instilled doubt in her generous heart. She remembered her great trouble when she revealed herself to Thorin and pledged her protection to him. She wanted to hear his voice again, deep and fervent, yet feared to meet his eyes, for never their eyes met and she felt a steely point of agony at the thought of his brilliant eyes upon her, agony filled with a vivid enjoyment.

Captured by this poignant pleasure, she remembered her life as an outcast, since she had decided to abandon her kin. The first time she gazed upon the austere dwarf prince, she ceased to belong to herself. She was instantly ravished by his noble presence and captivated by his eyes filled with a gentle melancholy. She pledged to protect, cherish him and bring upon his stern forehead the light of comfort. When she left her realm, she listened to her inmost heart and she felt a feverish warmth into her. She swallowed the poison of love as if it was a delectable nectar. She forgot the endless centuries spent in a deep loneliness, and the countless winters she witnessed, empty of heart, dedicated to her duty but surrounded with cold reverence and distant veneration. Thorin was the warmth her heart, chilled with despair, had ached for. Since the dawn of time, she had patiently waited and, though she ignored the meaning of love, she rushed to him as would a moth burn its soft wings in its desire to embrace an ardent flame. She needed to protect him, whatever may be the price, for her heart cried her to deny herself and bury herself in Thorin.

But, slowly, as she observed him and admired the beauty of his heart, she discovered she felt for him a sentiment she never had experienced, and she was unable to resist; while she breathed she loved him and death could not lessen her devotion. He possessed her heart without even knowing her and made her love him without acknowledging her presence. She did not reveal herself and dared not ask for retribution; a kind heart she had, endeavoured to sacrifice. Her concern for Thorin was selfless and she would have suffered an endless martyrdom just to enlighten his face with a transient smile.

She did not expect his fervent reaction; she would never have imagined such a passionate answer to her care. She would even accommodate herself with his disdain; she only claimed to protect him and would accept his contempt as long as she could continue to serve him. She was the shield that protected him, designed to circle him in her benevolence, created to appease his fears and doubts. Soft was her mission, though she remembered the years of solitude and anxiety, and the wounds she tended alone, the battles she fought for him and the sacrifices she consented gladly. The grief of her exile was eradicated when she glimpsed at him, and the pure rapture she felt erased her pain.

She remembered with a soft smile the signs she abandoned before him, to divert him from a peril and guide his path to a safe haven, the vile enemies she mercilessly murdered while they conspired against the dwarf and plotted his demise, the silent watch when he ventured through the wild land. She was his outrider when he roamed an unknown path and his defender in time of ordeal. But she remained distant and hidden. The night, she fiercely protected him and dared to approach him under cover of the night. She furtively contemplated him while he was abandoned to sleep, and she was often startled by his sturdy shape and massive hand. He rested, exhausted and disheartened, unaware of the little figure that would open her chest and give him her heart if he had asked her. Her sharp stare pierced the obscurity and she admired endlessly his male beauty. She sometimes emboldened and softly caressed his stern forehead or a strand of his dark hair with a delicate finger. His hand she dared not touch, though she craved to feel it enclosed in her tiny ones. The day, while Thorin worked in the forge, she waited and, when the place was unoccupied, she furtively slipped a coin in the purse he left on the anvil, to ease the torment of his poverty. When he was surrounded by his kin she retreated and disappeared, her heart saddened by the cruel deprivation. She wandered in Middle-Earth and dreamt of the dwarf with a bounden need, and whoever crossed her path was haunted by the sorrowful vision of her lonely figure abandoned to grief.

When dawn illuminated the forest with the bright colour of gold and when the sun lightly bathed her face, she was abandoned to the depth of her torment and still was hesitant. She endlessly murmured the dwarf's name, and she ignored that her heart had already sealed her fate.


	5. Another Unexpected Encounter

The night had fallen on the tranquil Shire and asleep were the verdant hills, cloaked in deep shadows but illuminated with the golden lights of many round windows. Hobbiton was quiet and only the joyful clamours from the inn nearby and the distant barking of a guard hound broke the peaceful silence. A solitary hobbit still walked on the way to his home and the unsteady light of his lantern looked like an impish firefly, for it leant in rhythm to the quiet pace of the walker. He was untroubled in his walk; he knew he would soon find the comfort of his nest and be welcomed by his kindred with a brilliant smile and an affectionate embrace. As he approached his house, the brightly illuminated window shone as a soft promise and his lips gave a small smile while he hurried his gait.

However, another walker strode the quiescent lane, a grim foreigner whose sturdy figure was enveloped in a dark cloak. His stern face and the considerable breadth of his chest frightened the hobbit, who hastily hid his worried face under the shadow of his top hat. They passed each other silently and the little pedestrian glimpsed at the wanderer. He could watch him plainly when his inquisitive lantern furtively enlightened the face of the traveller. He recognised in the foreigner a lonely dwarf, but the austerity of his features and the sturdiness of his stature intimidated the halfling, who restrained a sudden cry of fear. The dwarf ignored the incident and continued his walk with an utter indifference. Yet the hobbit run wildly and the lantern frantically rocked at his hurried strides. He slowed only when he crossed the little portal of his hole and, when he scrutinised the path, the dwarf was far, and his shape had disappeared in the crepuscular shade. But the hobbit felt safe only after he had entered the bright entrance of his hole and locked the door behind him.

As he walked, Thorin Oakenshield did not notice the peaceful neighbourhood, nor did he discern the calm beauty of the verdant land, draped with the quiet curtain of the night. The deep blue of the sky was marbled with dark ebony. At the horizon, the solemn crimson light and furnace flame of the sun delicately disappeared behind the black lace of the nature. A solitary star shone, modest gem embroidered on a velvet coat, and the moon was yet beneath the horizon. A nightingale warbled beautifully, perched on the fence of a plentiful yard. A tranquil smoke eructed from a chimney and Thorin gathered the fur of his surcoat about him, for the air was chill and his heart was lonely and cruelly wounded. Sullen in despair, he could not feel the consolatory beatitude of the Hill, and he refused to look at the warm illuminations in the comfortable holes and at the quiet rest of the roses in the gardens. He went past an old hobbit, who was sitting on a bench in his front yard, smoking a long wooden pipe that reached nearly down to the flowered floor. When he noticed the dwarf, he suddenly rushed to the hall of his hole and closed the door behind him with a last askance look at the night, apparently frequented by the most undesirable outsiders.

Thorin sighed for he realised he was lost; the verdant hills covered with lawn, the round and colourful doors, the plentiful gardens overloaded with many vernal flowers seemed alike to the dwarf and he was not moved by the serenity of the place. His pace was fast and resolute, and he walked the fragrant and picturesque path as he would walk through a battlefield. His stern and stately figure contrasted with the joyful and sleepy Shire. Hobbiton breathed insouciance and prosperity, while the crownless sovereign was burdened with regret and resolute to fulfil his quest, claim his realm, and find the maiden he craved for.

Devoted to his dismal reflection, he did not realise that he had approached Bag End. The dwarf was wandering erratically, grunting in khuzdûl, when suddenly his eye caught a dim light. He approached and recognised the rallying sign, a lonely rune, carved in a green door with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle, of a very proper and respectable hobbit hole. The front yard was rich in verdure and shadow, and the delicate scent of roses embalmed the air.

He pushed the small wooden portal and entered the propriety. He climbed the cobblestone stairs, scattered with soft moss and tiny daisies, and knocked heavily at the perfectly round door. A warm light gleamed through the small window next to the door, and Thorin indistinctly heard the whisper of a conversation inside.

Thorin suddenly turned his face to examine the path he had just followed and he desperately hoped he would catch sight of a tiny cloaked figure. Alas, the lane was empty and he was alone. Since Eníredis had revealed herself and abandoned him, he never could find her though he desperately tried to claim her. He attempted repeatedly to snare her, entrap her in his arms, and despair unbridled his instinct. He searched each shadow, each corner and each hideout. He remained isolated and refused to join the company of his folk, for he hoped that she would appear if she had felt confident. At night, he pretended to be asleep and waited for her; he wished to hear the quiet rustle of her cloak or discern a tiny creature at his bedside through his half-closed eyes. But he could never find her, and Thorin was exhausted with grief and solitude. Yet the dwarf, though he suffered and craved for her, though he was tortured with unrest and concern, received a gift, and this gift was the soft light of hope, given by the maiden draped with shade. And the dim ray of hope impatiently waited to flare with passion.

The door creaked open and tore him from his meditation. His dark stare met the kind smile of Gandalf the Grey. The wizard smiled and invited him to enter the dwelling. The doleful stature of the dwarf contrasted with the inside of the hole, full of warmth and cosiness, and the owner of the said hole, a small hobbit who anxiously fluttered around Gandalf, seemed preoccupied by his stately arrival.

When the deep and throaty voice of the dwarf broke the respectful silence that accompanied his entry, the company listened with diligence and even the hobbit remained silent, though he appeared rather disturbed by the presence of another dwarf in his home.

- Gandalf, I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice. I wouldn't have found it at all had it not been for that mark on the door.

When Thorin removed his cloak in an ample gesture, the respectable hobbit exclaimed with an infuriated little voice:

- Mark? There is no mark on that door. It was painted a week ago!

Thorin was satisfied to find the company in the hall, and his kin looked at him with a benevolent smile. Still Thorin looked preciously grim, though he smiled back when he met his cheerful nephews and inclined his massive head when he recognised the formidable shape of Dwalin. Their faithful presence eased a brief instant the weary heart of the dwarf. Though his mood was softened by their attendance, Thorin did not feel the warmth of the comfortable hole, with its hall like a tunnel, illuminated with a luxuriant chandelier.

Thorin turned over to face the wizard and the hobbit, still animated with their argument about the rune on the door. The dwarf briefly examined the hobbit; he was smaller than him and his little shape wore a large shirt, short trousers and brown suspenders. He was barefoot, for his large feet had thick warm hair as fair and curly as the hair of his head, and pointed were his ears; they accentuated the shrewd and impish look of his face. His features were kind, with light shiny eyes, and he abruptly stretched a long impish finger at the wizard in a disapprobative gesture. He seemed good-natured, though he was at the moment quite ireful and blamed Gandalf for the deterioration of his door. The hobbit was resolutely proud of the comfort and arrangement of his hole and complained that he had painted the door the week before. Though, next to the door, the wall had many pegs for hats and coats, the hobbit did not appear to be fond of his current visitors, for he stared at the dwarves with a discontent stare and had renounced to his usual hospitality.

- Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield, said the wizard.

Thorin faced Bilbo and assessed him with a sharp stare. Indeed the hobbit appeared frail and weak; he would hardly survive outside of his hospitable nest. The dwarf crossed his arms on his chest and Bilbo faltered in front of such inquisition. He was impressed by this display of austerity for, with his arms crossed, Thorin intimated him, though the lips of the dwarf drew an amused smile. He had decided to frighten him and turned around the poor creature:

- So, this is the hobbit. Tell me, have you done much fighting?

- Pardon me?

- Axe or sword? What is your weapon of choice?

- Well, replied Bilbo, I have some skill at conkers, if you must know, but I fail to see why that's relevant.

- Thought as much, he looks more like a grocer than a burglar.

The dwarves laughed merrily and led their sovereign to dine, for he seemed spent and presumably hungry. The room, with panelled walls, was comfortable and furnished with a table wide enough to allow the company to sit. The place was illuminated by rare candles and their dark golden light enfolded the dwarves in the mystery of conspiracy. A dwarf named Dori, with a kind and round face, brought to Thorin a pint of ale and a bowl of stew, then he sat with the rest of the company. While Bilbo remained incredulous at the sight of thirteen dwarves in his house, the company waited in silence and hoped Thorin would narrate his journey. But the dwarf ate in silence. Aroused with impatience, they shared worried looks and the eager nephews were hardly able to remain on their seat. Balin, conscious of their haste, had decided to disturb Thorin and asked with concern:

- What news from the meeting in Ered Luin? Did they all come?

- Aye. Envoys from all seven kingdoms, replied Thorin.

A murmur of approval travelled through the room.

- What do the dwarves of the Iron Hills say? Is Dain with us? asked Dwalin.

Thorin took a sip from his wooden stein, sighed and answered with a grave voice:

- They will not come. They say this quest is ours and ours alone.

The dwarves whispered their disappointment. Thorin was about to raise a spoonful of stew when, suddenly, he heard the sound of a knock at the door. The company instantly ceased all conversation and each dwarf stared at the others, in hope to find a dwarf who could be still awaited. Gandalf, who sat next to Thorin, raised a finger and counted the dwarves, but the company was complete and they did not expect another addition. Except, perhaps, the wizard; when he finished his count, he chuckled with a subtle smile. Thorin noticed the peculiar light in his eyes and turned to him with an uncertain stare. The visitor appeared to be expected by Gandalf and he wondered what trick he had prepared.

- Gandalf, do you know who is at the door? Please, do not tell me that this is a dwarf, there is far too many dwarves in this place as it is, pleaded the hobbit.

The wizard stood up with eagerness and banged his head on a wooden beam; the hobbit roof was too low for his tall shape, enhanced by his wide robe. The wizard headed towards the door with haste and explained quite mysteriously:

- That would most certainly be the last member of our company.

Thorin turned his feverish stare to the company. His look was fierce; he silently demanded an answer no one was able to provide, for they all wondered who was at the door. The dwarf was seized by a painful doubt and hope desperately tried to reach his heart against his will. He dared not believe the soft whisper in his core, he refused to believe it, for he would be lost if he was disappointed; he would be irreparably devastated with grief, and he would not defeat the pain of such cruel disillusion. Since his encounter with Eníredis, each instant without her was a perpetual torture, a thorn buried deep in his chest. His heart was exhausted with desire, cruelly weakened, and if hope reached his wounded heart, he would perish from such disappointment.

The dwarves bowed their head with great confusion at the sight of his restless stare. Alone, Balin faced his despair with a kind concern, and the old dwarf tried to discern the doubt that dwelled in the king's heart. Since Thorin narrated him his encounter with the cloaked maiden, never did he mention her further, for he kept her in his heart, cherished her in silence with ardour and passion, and each time Balin tried to question him, Thorin refused to answer and buried himself in a feral silence. The rest of the company still did not know of her existence, and though they found in Thorin a fierce and erratic conduct, they did not think further and took comfort in the fact that their leader had been taciturn and stern since he was a child. Yet, they should have noticed the perpetual state of unrest and the feverish stare of the dwarf, the countless times he behaved oddly, the way he relentlessly looked behind him, searched in every place, stared around him and muttered inaudible pleas to an invisible ear, and the sobs that escaped his powerful chest each time he realised that he had tried to embrace the void.

Bilbo rushed towards the door as fast as his little legs could do and tried, with wide gestures, to catch Gandalf's attention, thus attempting to prevent him from opening the door and reveal what he thought was another lousy dwarf.

- My dear Bilbo, reprimanded the wizard, this is not a way to welcome a lady. I do hope that all of you will treat her with the utmost respect. There is absolutely no need to frighten her, for she is quite a timid being, he added, immediately drawing the attention of the dwarves, who arose and approached to the door with curiosity; they guessed a decisive event was afoot.

Thorin and Balin remained seated and Thorin's despair had become visible; he had let the spoon fall and was seized with a feverish shiver. His breath had become heavy, as if doubt itself weighted on his stifled chest. The dwarves had their looks aimed at the round door and did not witness his distress.

Thorin hoped that she would appear, but he could not turn and watch the door; his whole body was completely petrified with tension and affliction. He heard the sound of the door being opened by the wizard and then the silence. The dwarf condemned himself for his stupidity; it could not be her. It could not possibly be her...

Nonetheless, a voice rose in the silence, feminine and soft:

- Mithrandir, I am sorry for being late, I lost myself and had to ask for my way twice, though the hobbits I met were not particularly inclined to enlighten me. I even think I startled them quite a bit.

The dwarves, who were gathered in the hall, laughed merrily, for the entrance of the unexpected visitor reminded them exactly of the king's arrival. Balin turned pale at the sight of Thorin; when he heard her voice, he had arisen slowly. His features expressed a violent storm; the castaway attempted to reach the promised haven. He battled the fierce wind and the destructive ocean to find, at last, the shelter he had dreamed of for countless years. The old dwarf was troubled when he realised the inner fight that dwelt in Thorin's heart and he trembled when he noticed the insane shadow in his eyes.

Finally, Thorin rushed to the hall and could contemplate the creature he had craved to embrace for endless months. He had not been betrayed by his ears, since he could recognise Eníredis, the fearful and untamed Eníredis, her face still hidden by her wide hood. Gandalf held her graceful hand and helped her to enter the hobbit hole, while the startled hobbit examined this most unexpected visitor, smaller than him, frail and fair of appearance. She reminded him of the delicate petal of a flower that the wind could not detach, for she seemed brave as well, and selfwilled as a lady who held an immense power.

Eníredis watched with a quiet contentment the comfortable interior of the hobbit hole. She noticed eleven dwarves around her in the hall. They had a joyful smile on their lips and had difficulties to conceal their curiosity. A hobbit stood next to her and he did not appear frightened; his mouth was opened with astonishment and he tried to unveil the shadows of her hood with his shiny eyes. Suddenly she perceived a motion and she turned to face Thorin as he rushed to her, jostling the dwarves so he could approach her. She attempted to conceal her trouble and bowed deeply in acknowledgment:

- My lord...

- You!

The intensity of his deep voice astonished the dwarves, who gathered to discretely question and comment the event. They furtively looked at the maiden and wondered who she was, for she seemed acquainted with their sovereign. But they were even more astonished when they witnessed his ardent move toward her. He swept down on her, such a hunter on its prey, and his firm hand led her to the outside of the hole. They both disappeared in the night. The dwarves ceased their whispers and aimed as well to the exit, for their curiosity had been aroused.

But Gandalf promptly closed the door behind the couple; the dwarves complained vigorously, and pointed the lack of politeness of the wizard, who had closed the door to their nose without ceremony. Their complaints were interrupted with a mischievous smile:

- She will be introduced in due time, be patient! At this instant, reunion and explanation are necessary and your presence would frighten her and delay their avowal.

The dwarves expressed their disappointment and resumed their conversation. They headed to the main room and quietly sat in the comfortable armchairs, next to the heath of the fireplace. Bofur and Gandalf lit their pipe while Dori drank a cup of chamomile. Bofur and Dwalin quarrelled over the last jar of biscuits but they were soon shushed by the rest of the company. Bilbo had followed them and he sat on a stool at the fireside, nibbling a biscuit he had rescued from the appetite of Bombur. His Tookish side had been aroused by the events and he keenly listened to Bofur when he raised his voice to disclose his theory about the maiden. Bilbo wondered what her appearance was and what would be her role in their adventure, albeit he still refused to consider that he would play his part in it. He dreamt of mountains and waterfalls, of faraway realms and of endless quests; He felt, for the first time in his life, that the world was ahead and he restrained a sudden desire to breathe the wind upon the distant land. Silent he remained but he could not conceal his interest when he heard the diverse possibilities about the lady.

Ori bravely tried to question the wizard but he smoked his pipe in silence and his sorcerous appearance scared the frail dwarf. Balin remained sullen and since he knew part of the truth, he did not need to rush into this intense talk; he sank in his armchair and stared at the fireplace. Fíli and Kíli, however, discretely crossed the corridor and headed towards a small round window, next to the door, and they pressed their curious heads one against another, trying to distinguish the couple in the dark garden. Bilbo noticed their presence and rushed behind them in an attempt to look at the window.

Eníredis barely realised she was outside, in the fragrant garden of the hobbit. The night had completely fallen on the Shire and only the dim light of the windows enlightened the yard. She wondered if Thorin had deliberately chosen to lead her in the protective obscurity so as to not frighten her, and her heart pounced with gratitude. The place was indeed sheltered and bloomed with vegetation; she was surrounded with the vivid gold of daffodils and the pale white of roses. The wayside of the little stairs was enlivened with the sweetest flowers, blended amongst verdant shrubs with dense foliage; daisies, crocuses and primroses raised their colourful petal towards her in expectation. The tip of her fingers met a rose and she lightly brushed the soft petals. The contact of this simple flower helped her to calm her trouble. Thorin faced her, her small arm still captured in his large hand. Their trouble was shared, for she felt his hand tremble against her. They remained silent, and only his heavy breath broke the calm night. He suddenly clasped both her arms firmly, as if he feared that she would escape or disappear.

He then kneeled in front of her and embraced her frail waist. Dwarves were a proud race and rarely did they kneel; furthermore, Thorin ruled over his kin and only the deepest love could defeat his pride. Eníredis was deeply moved by his devotion, which repeated their first encounter, when she kneeled in front of her king and pledged her loyalty to him. His ardour almost suffocated her, but she abandoned herself to his robust embrace. Her heart pounced with delight. Overwhelmed with love, she felt that every wound that stirred her heart had been instantly tended by his fervent embrace. He buried his head against her and she yielded, elated with the caress of his warm breath against her while he ceaselessly murmured her name. She refused to resist and she caressed his hair with a feverish hand. Since she entered the hobbit hole, she had the intuition that she would never regret her decision and the dwarf's reaction confirmed her premonition. He arose but preserved his comforting embrace. His hands still held her arms and he lowered his intense stare to her.

- My lady, said he, your absence has been a torment. Each instant I tried to find you in the shade and feared I would never encounter you again. Each shadow reminded me of my despair, and laughed at my grief, for you had disappeared and abandoned me to the despicable life of an exiled dwarf. Promise me you shall never abandon me again!

- I promise you, my lord. If you wish me to remain at your side, I shall never disappear again.

- How can I trust you will not depart, Eníredis? You already disappeared once and this bitter deprivation almost defeated me; you brought me your light after a life of obscurity and you cruelly left and condemned me to the darkest night. My empty heart has been filled with love and passion, but the object of my attachment was far and I couldn't reach the maiden I cherish and covet. Never shall you abandon me, Eníredis!

- Pardon me, she said, and the despair in her voice frightened Thorin, who stroke her hand softly. I pledged to protect you and feared that my presence would endanger you. My greater concern was your safety and I decided to remain concealed because I was scared. Scared to threaten you with a peril that can annihilate you, but scared as well to face you and I thought wrongly that if I revealed myself you would refuse my care and despise me.

- How can I despise the creature I love? I shall fight till my demise for you, and I care for you more than I care for my flesh or my realm. I promise you that I shall detain you and claim you till death, and death itself cannot diminish my love for you.

- Then, my lord, do you accept me as your shield? Do you wish me to join your journey?

- Yes, I do. You shall never be parted from me and once Erebor is mine, I will offer you the vast wealth of the Lonely Mountain, for only Erebor is worth of your loyalty, and the gold of my kin shall be yours.

Thorin spoke with passion and his ardour was great. He was about to continue his avowal but fear had seized his heard and he dared not pursue further. She sensed his restraint and felt the tension in his hands. She kept her head hidden under her hood and could not see his face, however, she imagined, at the tremor of his hand and the fever of his countenance, that his features expressed a feral and feverish passion.

- I do not desire gold, nor do I seek wealth, she retorted, roused to passion. You are the only treasure I cherish and I accept to be your slave if this condition shall entice me closer to you. I demand only to protect you till my death and consider myself fulfilled with your tender behaviour, for there is no treasure in the world that is softer and brighter than your attachment. I did not dare to claim your respect and am most recompensed with your endearment.

- Then, my lady, you shall decide your destiny and mine. I offer you my hand, my heart and a seat by my side as the queen of Erebor. Will you be my wife and queen, Eníredis?

Devastated by a vehement emotion, she felt stirred by love and doubt, and passion invaded her heart. She tried to escape the dwarf's passionate grip, for she felt oppressed and she desperately needed to breathe. But his embrace was firm and fierce, and he refused to release her. Never had she dared to hope of such a denouement, never had she imagined that the dwarf she blindly decided to protect and cherish felt for her such passion. She feared that any consent would interfere with her duty, but she felt such elation to learn that the one she loved shared her concern. The maiden never encountered such euphoria and she was tempted to accede to his desire. But instead she remained sombre and Thorin sensed her hesitation.

- Do you doubt me, my lady? asked he.

- I fear that my consent may divert you from your fate and endanger you. I shall remain your protector and I fear that your concern may compromise my duty. I do not wish to be prevented from protecting you and I need to remain free to act, without the fear that you may sacrifice yourself to defend me. Besides, she added, you cannot claim me as your wife and queen while you know just my name…

- I know that you protected me for centuries, that you are my most faithful and noble servant, and that you suffered in silence but asked only to defend me in return. I know that you devotion is a deed of love and that I do not deserve your care. Though I am not worthy of your dedication, I shall fight till death to obtain your love, and I shall prove you that the heart of a dwarf can only love once, and that he instantly recognise his beloved, even when he detain only a name and a glove from her.

At those words, he smiled and held her the little glove he had kept hidden for months close to his heart. This glove had been the most precious of his possessions and, though the wealth of his kin had been stolen from him, the dwarf never felt richer. He instructed her of the fate of his kin, and of the love they encounter only once in their life, and he confirmed her she was his beloved. His hand tried to reach her face, but she stepped back and he promptly withdrew for he refused to frighten her. She was touched by his devoted restrain and noticed that he did not attempt to remove her hood.

- Eníredis, I do not demand a prompt answer and I will wait till the end for your approval. But I beseech you to find in your heart the pity to understand the fierce adoration that stirs mine. I do not deserve you, but I shall try to earn your compassion, and even if you do not love me at present, I hope my fervour will instil in your heart a softer inclination. Do you accept me to court you? asked he.

- I accept, provided that your attachment will not interfere with my duty, she answered with a voice stirred by love, and she caressed his hand with devotion.

The dwarf was seized with elation and he kissed her hand repeatedly. His eyes shone with passion and his features expressed the most ardent love. But still he was unquenched and a doleful expectation darkened his features.

- You told me you would reveal yourself to me and I am inclined to contemplate your face. I crave to meet the eyes of my beloved and benefactor. Will you grant me with this favour?

When he noticed her hesitation, he added:

- Fear not, for I do not care of your race and of your appearance; my love will remain constant and I will cherish you with all my heart whatever is concealed under this hood. Mahal created me to be yours, and the divinity that shaped you endowed you be revered by myself.

She sighed deeply and slowly removed her hood. Her beauty enticed the light of the moon which casted its celestial halo upon her delicate face. She humbly lowered her head in front of the dwarf and revealed herself. Thorin was stirred by her beauty and felt the rapture of his heart seize him with a superb impulse. Silent he remained while he scrutinised her perfect round face and he was touched by her childlike appearance. He cupped her pale face with his sturdy hands and contemplated her lovely features. He smiled when he saw the dimples on her cheeks and he caressed her pointed ears and the strands of her tawny hair. He caressed the dark curves that delicately enhanced her jaw and the scar she had under her right eyebrow. She shivered at the feverish touch and lightly parted her lips when she felt his hand on her fragile neck. Since she removed her hood, she had kept her eyes closed and Thorin was captivated by her abandon. The dwarf was petrified by her peculiar beauty, for she reminded him of an immortal child, innocent and solemn, who detained the secret of the creation and faced time without fear. And yet she was shaped for him, adorable child who awoke his desire to cherish and protect her. Slowly he put his lips on her forehead and he softly brushed her skin with his dark beard. He feverishly traced her scar in a passionate kiss, and she abandoned herself to his transport.

- Eníredis, look at me, he implored.

He sensed her fear and held her all in the warmth of his embrace. He murmured his love to her and only she could hear his passionate confession. When a tear escaped her closed eyelid, Thorin wiped the precious droplet with a kiss.

She raised her head and looked him in the eyes; his breath was stolen by the soft wind at the sight of her eyes shaped as delicate almonds. Green they were, and they reminded him of the cold and deep colour of Erebor's marble. Her ebony pupils had a sharp intensity and stared at him with the wisdom of immortality. They were beautiful as a quiet dawn and fearsome as an endless night. She inspired a dreadful awe to those who could meet her stare; her eye could pierce the flesh as a sharp spear, dominate the will of the bravest heart and extricate the darkest secrets. Thorin, who had willingly offered his heart to her, did not fear her stare and he realised her eyes mirrored his emotions as if both of them shared the same heart; he discerned her love, her devotion and the melancholy that stirred her heart, as if she had offered herself to him entirely. Since Thorin remained silent, immersed in his contemplation, her smile disappeared and she tried to cover her face, ashamed and afraid to displease him.

The dwarf held her back and kissed her lips with passion, unable to contain his desire further. She tried to escape but he had awoken in her a sudden warmth. She felt the feverish need to be protected by his powerful shape and never had she felt as much her frailty as enclosed in his arms, pressed against his large chest. She abandoned herself to his fervent embrace and let a soft moan escape her mouth when he parted her lips to deepen the kiss. He clutched her waist and felt with rapture that she did not resist to his transport. Timidly she caressed his beard with her tiny fingers and the dwarf was deeply moved by such a display of love, for only the beloved of a dwarf was allowed to caress his beard and the act was considered as the most intimate. Thorin panted when he separated his lips from hers and, when he spoke, his voice was hoarse and his look was feverish with desire; he renewed his will to court and claim her, and he praised her beauty tenfold, for she was more beautiful than the wealth of his kin, and the Arkenstone itself could not match the splendour of her face. When she smiled, he smiled deeply and fulfilled her with kisses and caresses, till she lost her breath with his and till her cheeks flushed and turned as the petals of a timid rose.

They remained embraced but he felt her shiver from the cold of the night. A waft of wind came and swept down the nature with a quiet rustle. Saddened to release her, he deepened his clasp and protected her from the wind.

- Come inside, he said, you will be introduced to the company, do not be afraid.

- I am not afraid, my lord.

- Thorin, my beloved, you shall call me Thorin.

- Thorin, she said with a smile.

He smiled when he heard his name pronounced by her soft voice and led her, with a last kiss, towards the round door of the hobbit hole.


End file.
